


Defining Progress

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: “One of these days, Holmes, you are going to faint at the wrong time. I hope all I will be able to say is ‘I told you so.’ You need to eat, no matter how interesting a case.” Holmes thought Watson had been getting better, however slowly, but what is common for Holmes is not quite as common for Watson. How do you define progress?Fulfills Whumptober 28. accidents
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

“Holmes, you need to eat.”

He waved me off, halting mid stride as he read something from the paper in his hand. His brow furrowed in thought, and he read it again before bolting across the room.

“Holmes!”

“No time,” he told me distractedly, more focused on the paper in his hand than the coat he had to rebutton twice. “I need to talk to Lestrade. Stay here. We might have a case tonight.”

He was out the door before I could argue, and I turned back to picking at the plate in front of me with a sigh. Too focused on a case file Lestrade had brought to acknowledge his need for food, he had not had more than a bite or two in days; it would catch up with him eventually.

At least his preoccupation meant he had yet to notice my own lack of appetite. Last night had successfully stolen whatever interest in food I had left after nearly a week of nightmares, and I could not bring myself to eat much of the breakfast I usually enjoyed. I would try again at midday, but considering the dreams refused to leave me alone even in daylight, I rather doubted my appetite would return any time soon.

Footsteps sounded on the landing, and an image from last night’s visions—the worst thus far—forced itself to the front of my thoughts. I smothered a flinch as Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the sitting room, carrying the tray she used for our dishes.

“He still hasn’t eaten?” she frowned.

I just shook my head. She could see as well as I that he had not touched his plate. I simply hoped she did not comment on my own nearly untouched one. While I had hardly eaten more than him, at least _I_ was not running the length of London.

“That’s not good for him,” she muttered, clearing the dishes as I forced myself to take one more bite before I started helping. The comment was more to herself than to me, and I made no reply. We both had seen him in a variety of states due to his tendency to forgo food when on a case—everything from passing out as soon as he tried to stand to losing the weight his lean frame could not afford to lose—but that never made it easier to watch him do it. I had tried many times over the years to get him not to skip meals, but he refused to listen to me. I just hoped I was there when it caught up with him.

Thanking me when I got the door, she went back downstairs, and I turned my attention to the room as I tried to decide what I wanted to do today.

 _Stay here_ , he had told me. I huffed a laugh—as if I had any other plans. I had canceled my club membership before his return and not yet found a reason to renew it, I had no practice, and even the few patients that still came to me instead of Verner had no appointments today. I had finished those a few days ago, after the last case had ended. Provided there was not an emergency, I had nowhere _to_ go.

The details of that last case—fodder for many of my nightmares—tried to push themselves to the front of my thoughts again, and I forcefully shoved them away. I saw them enough in my sleep; I had no wish to think about them now. Holmes was alive and uninjured. That was all that mattered.

A journal I had left on my desk caught my eye, and I crossed the room, deciding to try to write. My interest in the written word was only just beginning to return, and I was slowly remembering how much I enjoyed it. For the first time in many months, I thought it might be nice to spend a few hours writing anything that came to mind.

I stopped only to pick at the lunch Mrs. Hudson brought up at midday, and even then, she had to call me several times before I noticed her presence. In stark contrast to the last several times I had tried to write, the words seemed to jump from my hand to the page, nearly demanding to be written. It had been far too long since I had been able to write anything at all, and I lost myself in the pages, content to write until I ran out of words.

The slamming of the door broke my concentration, and Holmes’ steps hurried up the stairs a moment later.

Forcibly pulling myself from my thoughts, I quickly closed the journal and shoved it into my desk drawer as I glanced at the clock. Journaling recent days had changed to a discussion of our recent cases, then into a detailing of the nightmares that had been plaguing me, and the day had sped by. Mrs. Hudson would be bringing supper up shortly.

“Watson?” He opened the door, a relieved grin flickering over his face as he saw me at my desk.

“A case?” I asked before he could comment on the ink I only just noticed on my fingers. I hoped writing down my dreams would diminish their power, but he did not need to know the dark turn my thoughts had taken.

I wiped the ink on a nearby rag as he shook his head. “Not completely. Do you remember Lestrade asking for my input on that smuggling ring last week?” I nodded, and he crossed the room to pick up a vaguely familiar cane near the settee, tossing it to me. “He is setting up an ambush to catch the leader tonight, and we are the only ones that have seen the man in the last three months.”

“He wants us to identify Pulman?” I caught the cane with a grunt. The stick was quite a bit heavier than I had anticipated, and I inspected it, trying to decipher why.

A nod sufficed for his answer, and he smirked as he noticed me studying the cane. “Do you not recognize it?”

I did—but not quite. It was obviously one of mine, if for no other reason than that Holmes’ walking sticks were not the sturdier canes I frequently required, but I could not tie a memory to the substantial weight in my hand. Why did the stick feel as if it were made of metal instead of wood?

Metal. The word sparked the memory, and I gripped the cane in each hand and pulled.

The sword parted from its sheath with ease, and a small grin of pure nostalgia escaped. This was one of the first Christmas presents he had given me, one he had claimed was merely because he liked things to be useful—the more uses the better—but that I remembered receiving after a case had left us in danger after a ruffian had disarmed me.

His smirk widened, nearly turning into a true grin as he saw me staring. I had not thought of this cane in years—since the year before Reichenbach at least, if not since before my marriage—but it had been a typical part of my routine when I had been helping him with cases regularly.

“You forgot about it.”

I nodded, still staring at the blade in my hand. “Nearly. You did not ask me on many cases in that last year or so, and I had no use for it after…” I trailed off, changing my wording, “no use for it later. Where was it?”

“You left it in the umbrella stand after one of your visits,” he replied, affecting a scowl. “I moved it to the sitting room, and it eventually fell behind the bookcase. I found it the other day while retrieving a book I knocked off the shelf.”

A half-hearted smile tried to break free at the memory. He preferred to keep the maps he updated with every case in his umbrella holder, and Mary had always wanted me to spar with her when she saw the cane. I had left my cane here both as a reminder that I had no need of it when he would not let us help with his cases and as a way to keep Mary from demanding the uneven sparring session, preferring to use the knife I kept in my desk against her own knife.

“You could have brought it to me in Kensington,” I told him, not quite smothering the mischievous grin trying to escape.

Relief mixed with amusement in his gaze, and I wondered why. “Why would I have done that when I could so easily get you to come here?”

I huffed at him. “We had that discussion years ago. Most people think you do not want to see them if you do not return their calls.”

“You did not think that.”

Not then, but I would not announce that hindsight was clearer. I wondered how many times I had surprised him with an unwanted visit. I could ill afford to do it again, and I was always watching to make sure he did not want the sitting room to himself for a while.

“Of course I didn’t, but that does not change that you would have been welcome.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure where to go with that, and I allowed a faint smile to escape. I had always enjoyed backing him into a corner.

“When are we meeting Lestrade?” I asked after a moment, deciding not to let the silence stretch so long that he reopened the topic.

He glanced at the clock. “In two hours. You should have enough time for the supper Mrs. Hudson is nearly done making before we leave.”

I nodded and turned away, acknowledging the time more than the meal. I had not managed to eat much of my luncheon, and after so many hours detailing my nightmares, I certainly had no appetite for supper. For once, I hoped he did not pay attention to the meal; I doubted I would even be able to force myself to eat, and I could not pretend well enough to fool him if he focused.

Holmes wandered into his bedroom, digging through the shelf he kept in there as he changed into the older clothes he preferred on a stakeout, and I reopened the journal. I had stopped writing mid-word, and I dared only to finish the sentence before slipping the journal into a pocket. He would not dig through my desk, but we freely borrowed each other’s things. I would not chance him looking to borrow something from my desk and happening across the journal, and I stood to hide it in my room as I heard Mrs. Hudson coming up from the kitchen.

Holmes was still in his room when I came downstairs, and I quickly filled a plate with a fraction of what I normally ate, moving it around as if I had already eaten some before trying to eat at least a little. If he paid enough attention, Holmes might deduce the truth, but he was distracted enough I doubted he would notice the deflection. It was no different than leaving a book next to the settee when I could not climb the stairs—provided Holmes kept most of his focus elsewhere, both prevented an awkward conversation without lying outright.

I managed to swallow a few bites, but I had more than eaten my fill by the time Holmes emerged from his bedroom. I kept my fork in my hand, however, as I watched him cross the room to grab one of the letters he had pinned to the mantle.

“Eat something, Holmes,” I said when he turned to grab his coat. The temperature was dropping quickly as the sun set, and, while the bulky coat would hamper movement, it could also be the difference in a long, cold stakeout and merely a long stakeout.

He waved me off, never looking up from the paper in his hand. “We need to leave in a couple of minutes. I will be fine.”

I rolled my eyes, wrapping a slice of bread and two pieces of meat in a napkin and shoving it into my pocket as I stood. He could not be far from having a problem, and I did not want him to pass out in the middle of an altercation. I would try again later, but I made no further comment for now, merely grabbing the heavy cane and shoving my revolver into my coat pocket as I followed him out the door.

Once in the cab, Holmes answered my question about what we were doing tonight, and I listened closely, glad he had finally stopped keeping _everything_ about his cases a secret until the last moment. I found it easier to help if I knew something of what we were getting ourselves into, and he described how he had tied together Lestrade’s information over the last week to pin down the location of their supply warehouse. Lestrade was setting his trap near the front door, and several other Yarders would be stationed nearby both to help spring the trap and to provide aid if Pulman or his lackeys put up a fight.

After a few minutes, however, a poor word choice brought one of the more gruesome images from last night to mind, and I smothered the resultant flinch. My own mind was my worst enemy, and what had been just another phrase a week ago now recalled an image I preferred not to remember. I looked past him to watch our surroundings as I listened, using anything I could find as a focus to keep my thoughts in the present while he described the trail of leads he had followed at Lestrade’s request.

Buildings passed as shadows in the lamplight, looming in the darkness only to just as quickly disappear behind us. Silhouetted figures appeared here and there in the gloom—walking down the sidewalk, peering out of an alley, sleeping in the alcoves. We passed Yarders at intervals, each patrolling a beat, and some of them nodded hello when they saw me watching them, though I doubted they could recognize me any more than I could, them. The occasional cab passed us, and one held a young couple. The lady’s large feather hat had apparently tickled his nose, and her laughter carried faintly behind his sneezing…

“Watson?”

His tone said this was not the first time he had tried to get my attention, and I jerked to awareness, only just realizing I had stopped listening. I turned to look at him as the cab rounded a corner to stop in front of a warehouse.

“I got distracted,” I said apologetically. “You were saying?”

He said nothing, staring at me, and I raised an eyebrow as I tried to deflect the obvious question in his gaze. It was rare that I lost focus while he spoke, and I thought for sure he would call me on it. He still made no reply, however, and I affected a shrug even as I smothered a sigh of relief. The darkness must have covered just how distracted I had gotten. I turned away, using the cane to steady myself as I descended to the cobblestones.

“Where are we meeting Lestrade?” I asked as the cabbie drove off, looking around the collection of warehouses on the river. I recognized the area, unfortunately, and a passing thought hoped this evening did not end how the last one had.

Gesturing for silence, he led the way behind one warehouse and between two others to reach a fourth hidden deep in the shadows along the riverbank. A familiar form crouched in an alcove in sight of the door, and Lestrade nodded a greeting as we crouched next to him.

“Just in time,” the inspector breathed. “He is supposed to show any minute.”

Buried in the greeting was a half-hearted rebuke for being late, and Holmes scowled as I wondered when Lestrade had expected us to arrive. My pocket watch read less than ten minutes before the time Holmes had told me.

Voices cut off whatever my friend might have replied, however, and we turned our attention to the path running between the buildings.

Pulman and five others strode toward us, talking quietly about which boxes they needed from the warehouse, and I gripped my cane. This was not going to plan. We had expected Pulman to have only two men with him, and the shadowed forms stationed all around us were too far away to provide immediate help. There had been a time when Holmes and I could take on six or seven attackers easily, but I doubted we could do it tonight. I was not as fit as I had been then, and Holmes had not eaten in several days.

There was no going back now, however. The group reached the marked place directly in front of us, and the light of many lanterns pierced the darkness as the three of us lunged the blinded group.

Whether intentionally or not, Lestrade took on Pulman. The leader went down without a fight, but the man that had been walking to Pulman’s right did not. Lestrade nearly found himself facing a man almost two feet taller than him before one of the constables reached him. I would have gone to help, but I had my own problem.

Holmes had lunged upright, tackled the closest man to the ground, and never regained his feet. The suspect pushed himself free easily, and the remaining four men quickly surrounded me. I had no chance to even check on him before I had to defend myself, and I barely got my sword free of its sheath in time to block the dagger the largest man aimed for my chest. The battle instincts the nightmares had amplified took over, and my awareness faded to block, thrust, slash, incapacitate.


	2. Chapter 2

A cry of pain intruded on his awareness, and he frowned. Where was he?

More sounds registered, and he slowly recognized the chaos of a fight. Three, four, five people fought within a few feet of him, with more rushing to join, and he struggled to wake fully. Wherever he was, he did not need to be incapacitated with an altercation nearby.

Memory sparked, recalling the warehouse, Pulman, and springing the trap, and he fought harder. He had left Watson and Lestrade to take on six men, two of which were much larger than either his friend or the shorter inspector. He needed to help.

The pained sound repeated, and fear shot through him. _Watson!_

The sounds of battle subsided as the added footsteps reached the fight, and metal sounded on wood before someone walked toward him with an uneven gait.

“Holmes?” Familiar footsteps stopped to his left, and Watson knelt just before a hand pressed gently on his neck.

The fear eased. There was no panic in that voice, but he still needed to open his eyes.

“Wake up, Holmes.”

His eyelids finally obeyed his commands to open, and he blinked several times, trying to focus as a sigh of relief reached his ears.

“I believe this is when I get to say I told you so,” Watson’s voice said wryly. “Also, you’re an idiot.”

He should have expected such a comment, considering he had passed out due to inanition rather than true injury. He had done this before, but never during an altercation. Watson would never let him hear the end of it.

Or, rather, he hoped Watson would never let him hear the end of it. He had missed the pawky humor that was so scarce after his return. Watson’s comment about bringing the cane to Kensington had been the first time in far too long that Watson had initiated even a mild version of their old banter, and the hint of a mischievous grin that had escaped had only emphasized how long it had been since Watson had felt comfortable enough to be sarcastic. Holmes had struggled to hide the relief that shot through him. Progress was progress, however small.

His vision finally cleared, and Watson came into shadowed view above him, wryly smirking even as he checked Holmes for injury. It had been far too long since he had seen his friend truly grin, and he thought that might make it worth it. There had been enough constables nearby to take his place in the altercation, and Watson was finally allowing amusement completely through the mask Holmes had long ago tired of seeing.

“Maybe this will convince you not to go without food on a case,” his friend told him, leaning back to let him sit up. “What would have happened if Lestrade and I had not been here?”

Probably nothing except letting their man escape, he thought as he pushed himself upright. Pulman was not one to attack someone—even one that had lunged at him first—when he could disappear.

It would not do to voice that, however, and he opened his mouth to brush off both the question and Watson’s continued attention when the light hit Watson’s face.

Blood streamed from a long cut dangerously near Watson’s temple and eye, and Holmes’ breath caught in his throat.

“What is it?”

He dug for his handkerchief though his gaze refused to move from the blood streaming from Watson’s head.

“You are bleeding,” he answered, forcing the words to remain level as he reached to pass Watson the cloth.

Questioning briefly crossed Watson’s face, and he touched a careful finger to where the blood marred the side of his head, frowning when his finger came back red.

“How did I miss that?” he muttered, ignoring Holmes’ handkerchief to press his own against the wound.

Worry shot through Holmes at the muttered words, and he studied his friend. Watson should not have been able to miss such an injury. The blood streamed a fraction of an inch from his eye, rendering every blink uncomfortable, and the cut should have been painful.

He remembered the cry of pain that had woken him, and his worry grew. The only way Watson could have cried out like that without being aware of the injury was if he had allowed himself to sink into what Holmes thought of as Combat. When the battle reflex completely took over Watson’s awareness, Watson fought until either he ran out of opponents or injuries caught up with him. He became soldier, then doctor, then friend. He acknowledged no one except to determine whether friend or foe, and his own injuries were pushed aside until either they caught up with him or everyone else had been treated. Given that several Yarders had been stationed nearby, ready to turn the six against two fight into many against six, this should not have sent Watson into Combat.

The last time his friend had allowed himself to sink into Combat so easily, Watson had later admitted to nightmares plaguing him for over a week prior.

But Watson had not displayed signs of nightmares in over a month…had he?

A closer study revealed everything Holmes had no wish to see but should have seen long ago. Shadows beneath Watson’s eyes showed a lack of recent sleep, and his face was thinner than it had been even a week ago. How had he missed the signs that Watson had stopped eating and sleeping?

The answer nearly hit him over the head: because _he_ had stopped eating, and tracking this information down for Lestrade had kept him out of the flat at all hours.

“Awake then, Mr. Holmes?”

Lestrade’s voice broke into his thoughts, and he glanced over to see the inspector leaving the other Yarders to take away the gang members as he walked towards them, frowning faintly.

Watson rolled his eyes before Holmes could respond. “Don’t worry about him, Lestrade. He decided a week ago that he had no need of food. It finally caught up with him.”

Lestrade’s frown turned into a faint smirk, and Holmes scowled at the ribbing. Watson continued before Holmes could protest the words, however, tying off the ends of a scrap piece of cloth wrapped around the handkerchief on his head.

“Here,” Watson said, wiping his hands clean before reaching into a pocket, “Eat something before you pass out again.”

Holmes found a napkin shoved into his hand, and he opened it to find bread and meat. The faint smile crossing Watson’s face announced he had not hidden his surprise completely, and Lestrade laughed aloud.

“Listen to him, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade glanced meaningfully at Watson, conveying more than his words said, and Holmes smothered a frown that even Lestrade was able to see the change in Watson. “Perhaps Mrs. Hudson will have something for you at the flat, as well.”

He nodded, acknowledging the dual meaning behind Lestrade’s suggestion, and took a bite of the food. Long cold and carrying pieces of lint from the napkin, he ate more to see the relief in Watson’s gaze than to silence the pangs of hunger he had only just noticed. He needed to find a way to get Watson to eat as well.

“Do you need us for anything else?” Watson asked as Holmes ate.

Lestrade shook his head. “You already identified Pulman and three of the men with him. I’ll stop by tomorrow to get the rest of your evidence, Mr. Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

He studied Watson on the ride back to the flat, noting everything he had missed in the last week due to his preoccupation with this case. Shadows beneath Watson’s eyes and a barely noticeable loss of weight were only the beginning. The fight—or perhaps the injury—had drained the color from Watson’s face, and his friend had made only the barest effort to start a conversation before turning his gaze to their surroundings. The blood on Watson’s face slowly dried while the cut on his temple still bled into the handkerchief, and his expression clearly showed that he had sunk deep into his thoughts. Should Holmes try, it would likely take more than the three attempts it had taken earlier to gain Watson’s attention. Whatever had taken his appetite and ability to sleep was plaguing him in daylight hours, as well, and Holmes finally understood why Watson had hidden his journal in his room instead of leaving it in his desk.

Was Watson’s return to writing good, after so many months without being able to put pen to paper, or bad, given that what he had written were nightmares plaguing him around the clock?

Watson inhaled deeply, glancing over as Holmes mulled over the question. “You can stop staring at me, Holmes. I am not the one that passed out after going without food for a week.”

“It was not a full week.”

“Close enough.”

Holmes huffed, more for show than out of real irritation. “Five days is not a full week.”

“Again, close enough.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not wanting to take the banter so far that Watson fell silent again. “And how many days has it been since _you_ ate?”

The smirk that crossed Watson’s face was almost genuine. “Zero. I had supper.”

A frown tried to escape. The reply had been truthful, and it explained how Holmes had not noticed Watson avoiding food, but how many meals had Watson skipped or nearly skipped for it to show in his face? He would have to ask Mrs. Hudson if he wanted a more detailed answer.

“Why are you staring at me? You cannot really think I am lying?”

Holmes shook his head. He knew better than that. Not only would Watson never outright lie any more than he himself would, but, unlike Holmes, Watson _could_ not lie. He had gotten better at dissembling before Holmes’ return, but he still could not directly convince anyone of something he did not believe himself. His tell was too obvious.

They came to a stop in front of the flat before Holmes could decide how to respond, and he followed Watson inside.

“I should clean up,” Watson said, catching sight of himself in a mirror. “Eat something, would you? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has something left in the kitchen from supper.”

Footsteps sounded from Mrs. Hudson’s rooms, and Watson turned toward the stairs before she could see him, his slightly too-tight grip on the banister joining his uneven gait and continued lack of color to reveal the headache his words would not. Holmes would have to watch him for a while to make sure he was not hiding some other injury, but Mrs. Hudson’s door opened before he could think on it for long.

“Mr. Holmes,” she greeted. “I thought I heard the doctor asking for me.” She glanced up the stairs, where they heard the washroom door click shut.

Holmes shook his head. “He was telling me to ask if you had anything left from supper.”

Mrs. Hudson huffed in amusement. “Finally catch up with you, did it? It’s about time.” Waving him through the door, she led the way into the kitchen. “Goodness knows it’s been long enough since either of you ate.”

_Either?_

“Watson told me he ate supper,” he carefully replied.

The huff was more irritation than amusement this time. “He defines it differently than I do, then,” she said as she gathered some of supper’s leavings onto a fresh plate. “His plate is there on the counter. The neighbor distracted me just before I started to clean up, and I haven’t gotten back to it yet.”

Quickly spotting the plate she indicated in the pile of other supper dishes, he found a fraction of Watson’s normal portion growing stale after sitting out for so long. At first glance, it appeared Watson had filled his plate as normal but had simply not been able to finish it, but Holmes did not merely glance. A true look revealed the deflection—Watson had dished up a fraction of his normal portion and eaten very little, moving the rest around to make it appear eaten.

“He stopped eating the day before you did,” she continued as she handed him a full plate. “The only difference is that you stopped completely while he tried to eat a small amount. I said nothing at first, hoping his appetite would return on its own, but he screamed himself awake last night. He pretended not to hear me when I went up to check on him.”

Something landed heavily in his chest. He had left for the docks shortly after Watson went to bed and did not return for several hours. Maybe there was something to Watson’s repeated attempts to convince him to keep a regular schedule. If he had been eating and sleeping regularly, he would have noticed much faster that Watson was not.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said as he turned to take the overfilled plate upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas :)


	4. Chapter 4

I closed the door behind me and set my bag within reach, wanting to treat myself before he came upstairs. If I could not hide it completely, I would at least prevent him from thinking it worth staring at me all evening. At least one of us should sleep tonight, and for all that it had bled heavily, the cut on my head was more an annoyance than truly dangerous, no matter the look of horror that had crossed Holmes’ face when he spotted it.

Alone in the washroom, there was no reason to smother the frown of confusion at the memory. Why he had reacted with horror—fear—was beyond me, given that the cut was not even dangerous to _me_ , much less to him, but I doubted I would ever understand half of the things he did. I just wished I had noticed the injury before he woke. It would have been much simpler if I could have hidden the wound until I had time to treat it—or at least put a makeshift bandage over the cut before it had time to bleed down my face—but there was nothing I could do about that now. I simply hoped I could finish treating it before he came upstairs; he would feel obligated to help otherwise, and I would much rather he eat than bother himself over me. The injury was not bad enough to warrant the worry I had seen in the cab, and letting him see the injury would only prolong the fuss.

I had to hurry, however; I had only a few minutes before he escaped Mrs. Hudson’s fussing for going so long without a meal.

A wet rag quickly cleared the worst of the blood away, and I finally got a good look at the injury. Though the cut was not deep enough to worry about the artery beneath, it _was_ long, and I sighed as I dug my suture kit out of my bag. Stitching my own injury was always more difficult than stitching an injury on someone else—especially on my face—but I saw no reason to bother Holmes for a few stitches. That he ate something was far more important than a small cut, no matter how difficult it was to use a mirror to stitch a wound.

The edges were clean enough, at least, and it took only a few small stitches to pull them together. In a matter of minutes, I had anchored a bandage over the injury as I listened for Holmes on the stairs.

I heard nothing, and the sitting room remained empty even after I set the soiled jacket aside and changed my blood-stained shirt. I breathed a sigh of relief, looking around the room as I decided what I wanted to do. The way Holmes had been staring at me on the ride home meant he had finally seen more than I wanted him to, and I was more than tempted to retreat to my room for the night. I had no wish for him to ask _how much_ supper I had eaten, nor did I want to discuss why I still had no interest in food or sleep. My memories—and my nightmares—were my own, and I saw no reason to inflict them on him no matter how much he thought he wanted to know.

I had a head injury, however. The pain in my temple pounding a counter rhythm to my pulse announced how foolish it would be to trap myself in the upstairs bedroom for the night, and I would likely find a worried detective following me up the stairs if I tried. Normally, I would not leave the sitting room after either I or Holmes had taken injury, and certainly not after he had pushed himself so far as to pass out from inanition and I had received a head wound.

I would also normally use the incident to try to coax a promise out of him to eat better, but I could hardly do that when my own appetite was nonexistent. Even with my truthful answer of having eaten supper—by my own current definition, at least—he had seen enough in the cab to know that I had eaten very little in recent days. If I tried to use this incident to coax a promise out of him, he would quite rightly be able to turn my own words against me, and that was not a promise I could give—or a conversation I wanted.

So since expectations dictated I could not retreat to my room, I would have to dissuade conversation in the sitting room. Retrieving a pain reliever before setting my bag in its place, I quickly mixed the powder into a glass of water and emptied the glass, then stretched out on the settee with a book. If Holmes lingered downstairs long enough, perhaps I could use the novel to avoid a conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

Silence reigned in the rooms above, and he climbed the stairs quickly, trying to convince himself that nothing had happened while he had been in the kitchen. Head wounds bled quite a bit more than anywhere else, and Watson had not exhibited any symptoms of blood loss or major injury, but Watson’s tendency to hide injuries had only grown in the years Holmes had been gone. It was not until he saw Watson lying on the settee, a fresh bandage on his head and a book in his hand, that he relaxed.

“Mrs. Hudson gave me far more than I can eat,” he grumbled, setting the plate on the table within Watson’s reach as he watched to see how the comment would be received.

Apparently caught in the novel, Watson did not respond for a long moment. “She is probably trying to make up for lost time,” he finally said, his gaze still on the pages.

Holmes huffed. “She knows as well as you do that that is not how it works.”

Watson affected a smirk. “Did you try telling her that?”

“Of course not!”

The smirk did not grow any more genuine, but it did widen. “Then why are you complaining to me?”

“You should help me finish it. You know how she will fuss if any of this goes back downstairs.”

Watson’s shoulder lifted in a minute shrug. “I had my fill at supper.”

Holmes waited a beat, expecting a sarcastic addition to the statement, but Watson fell silent. Holmes frowned as Watson’s gaze resumed skimming the page. The reply had been true enough, but that was the key. It had been true _enough._ If he had not talked to Mrs. Hudson, Holmes would not know just how many details the simple statement omitted.

A glance around the room revealed everything Watson had done before Holmes made it to the sitting room—from the way the medical bag had rotated in its place to the used packet of pain reliever smoldering on the edge of the hearth—but he struggled for the words that would convince Watson to let him help.

“Stop staring at me, Holmes,” Watson muttered after a moment, turning a page without lifting his gaze from the novel. “I’m fine.”

Holmes huffed in frustration, still searching for words.

“Is it the last case?” he finally asked.

Watson tensed, his gaze freezing mid-sentence for a long moment before it resumed scanning. “Don’t worry about it.”

His frown deepened. Their last case had been a repeat murderer. Four people, from all ages, classes, and backgrounds, had been found in various parts of the city, and when the killer had realized Holmes was on the trail, he had decided to make Holmes his next target. Holmes had turned the situation back on his captor, but not before the middle of the second day. Watson had stormed the place, the Yard not ten steps behind him, only a few minutes later, and his friend had not let Holmes out of his sight all evening. When Lestrade came by the next day with this smuggling ring, however, Watson had declined to join him, citing patients as well as his usual dislike for the information gathering portion of each case. Holmes had thought nothing of it. He was fine; it had merely taken Watson the night to get over his scare.

He knew differently, now.

“Why are you so stubborn?”

Watson affected another smirk. “I learned it from you. Eat, Holmes. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Holmes rolled his eyes but took a bite, and Watson turned another page, leaning back into the cushion as he did when a novel completely absorbed his attention. Silence fell, broken only by the turning of pages and the silverware clinking against Holmes’ plate.

“What can I do?” he finally managed to ask after several minutes, stumbling only slightly over the uncomfortable words as he set the severely depleted plate aside.

Watson made no answer, apparently focused on his book, but Holmes knew better. The flicker of relief at the cleared plate would not have crossed Watson’s face if he were not paying attention at least somewhat.

He glanced around the room instead of immediately trying again, however, again noting the bag’s new position, the packet of pain reliever on the hearth, and bloodied rags in the fireplace. A faint patch of green caught his attention, and he glanced at the bag again to see Watson’s suturing kit on top.

The weight in his chest reappeared. Watson’s injury had required _stitches_ , yet his friend had still not let him help. Watson had never enjoyed calling attention to injuries, but before Switzerland, he at least would have allowed Holmes to help stitch the wound. It would have been far easier for Holmes to stitch the injury than for Watson to use a mirror to do so. He did not like the deductions that stemmed from such an action.

He also did not like that Watson had yet to comment on how little Holmes had eaten in the past week. After passing out in the middle of an altercation, Watson should have been using the incident to coax a promise out of Holmes to eat better. That Watson remained silent said more about his recent eating habits than the plate downstairs had. He could not remonstrate Holmes for skipping meals when he had so recently done the same, and that simple fact made Holmes resolve to do better. If he did not eat regularly, he could not be sure Watson ate regularly, and that was more important than any puzzle.

An idea came to mind, and he glanced between his friend and the violin resting in the corner. He had never been able to deduce why Watson enjoyed the music so much, but he did not need the reason to make use of it.

“How about a trade?”

His question abruptly broke the silence, but Watson did not jump. He did hesitate, however, though his gaze met Holmes’ in silent question a moment later.

Holmes affected a mischievous grin, refusing to show how much Watson’s actions worried him. “I will make you that promise if you will answer a question.”

Watson hesitated again. “What?”

A worry that he had deduced wrongly flit through his thoughts, but he pushed it away and charged forward.

“You want me to promise not to skip meals,” he answered.

Traces of surprise and a smaller amount of relief flit through Watson’s gaze, but Holmes had no time to think on it before Watson affected a half-smile.

“Of course I do. What is the question?”

He paused briefly, working to phrase it correctly, but finally almost blurted it as wariness faintly appeared in Watson’s eyes.

“Would Mendelssohn or Bach help more?”

For the second time that night, pure emotion crossed Watson’s expression. Holmes preferred the amusement of earlier, but even surprise was better than the stark blankness that had become Watson’s normal expression while Holmes was away.

The surprise faded quickly, Watson carefully shuttering his expression as he debated. Answering the question would indirectly acknowledge the problem, but Watson had been trying to get Holmes to eat regularly for too many years to quickly pass up the chance, now. After a moment, worry won over reticence.

“Mendelssohn.”

Holmes allowed a faint grin as he crossed the room. Watson may not be ready to trust him again, but indirectly allowing the aid was a start. He would play all night, if it meant Watson would lose the exhaustion coloring the skin under his eyes, and Watson’s appetite might return with a full night’s sleep.

It was not the aid he had wanted to give, but at this point, anything was progress.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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